Lines
by Olynara Sedai
Summary: A thin imaginary line dividing the sane little Gothemites from their greatest fear in human form. It isn't something Arkham's most famous occupant appretiates. Too bad he's too drugged up to do more than think.


_100 Themes: 12 Insanity._

**Lines**

A line. Just a line, that's all it was. Not a very thick line, either. It wasn't like it was a Wall-of-China thick line, or made of chrome steel, or a springy elastic that, once you got too close, caused you to rebound straight back into your territory.

No, it was more like a painted white line dividing two parking spaces. And young drivers passed those lines all the time! What did they get? A slap on the wrist, parking ticket at most. Yet, when this line -more or less the same in size and difficulty to cross- was passed, the fee was a minimum of rehabilitation in Arkham, the maximum death by electroshock. Unbalanced bastards.

--

Me, I don't like lines. And I chose not to have any. Lines ruin everything. But you wanna hear the funny part? That's why people didn't like me! They love lines, do people. Because lines separate things. They keep people apart, and they make the fools feel safe and secure because _they're_ on one side and everyone else is on the other.

There's a line between good and bad, between happy and sad, between love and hate. Isn't that funny? Poor, trapped little saps actually believe that an imaginary mark will somehow make them different from the man who stole their car. Or him: in the corner with a knife, waiting for a passer-by. Or maybe me, a dangerous psychopath.

--

Silly people.

--

But you know the worst part?! The areas on either side of the line _weren't even even._ Oh, sure, people thought you didn't need all that space, but you did! This was sick! Standing in the middle it was even more obvious. A delicate, beautiful trapeze artist such as myself was balanced on the tight-rope of a line, knowing that on one side was a kiddy pool for me to land in, while the other side was an endless expanse of space, freedom, everything, and I could immerse myself in it anyway I wanted, not with a _quadruple full turn whatever whatever _dive_. _And yet, everyone expected me to manage the dive, even though I'd far prefer the other side. Bastards. Bondage masters.

It was sick. And I _know_ sick. I'm an expert at _sick_. But this was worse than anything I could manage. I mean, what's death compared to torment?

--

"All that time I spent trying help those fools, those idiots, and they couldn't even appreciate it! Why did I bother? Why _do_ I bother?! They should all just rot." Rant slowing, I rested my head against the firm white padding. All I could do at the moment was breath and talk, limbs still paralysed from one of the guard's harsher doses of… of… I knew what it was, the precise name just escaped my at that moment. It didn't matter, after all Arkham 'doctors' were allowed to mix toxins and medicines, testing them on their wards in the hope of making them "good," or perfecting the chemical lobotomy. It's not illegal if it's not invented yet.

--

"These doctors and their tests…. compared to these I can't believe anyone gets so riled up over a harmless little laughing gas… wouldn't you…?" I tried to look up, straining my neck and eyes to peer through the little window the shadow watching outside. I saw the spark of eyes and knew I had an audience. "… Wouldn't you rather die laughing?" Then I giggled. "Hee hee…" it was an odd sound, the first time the doctors had heard it they'd been horrified… that's the only reason I kept doing it.

--

Though this whole hideous situation was slowly getting funnier.

--

Padded walls have a horrible way of sucking in every sound, making you unsure whether or not they were real. I knew I'd spoken a moment before, but I wasn't _sure_ I had. And the fleeting laugh was even more confusing, I wanted to be sure I made a sound, but I wasn't… so I had to laugh again. And again. And again. And louder. And harder. And anything and everything that could make me sure I'd made a sound. Because I _needed_ to know I'd made a sound.

"Hee hee hee ha ha ha ha Ha Ha HA HA HAHAHAHAHA!" Oh, it felt so good to laugh! "Hah… ha ha ha… heh heh… hee hee…" It died down, and my body would've shaken if the drugs had worn off… but I didn't notice. The guard was looking at me. Staring. Then he leaned in closer towards the bullet proof glass, and I felt my heart stop in it's cage at the classic red grin.

He swaggered in as though he owned the place, and having been in Arkham so often before, he practically did. As he walked, he crossed over the think white line dividing cement and padded flooring. "Hiya Batsy! Having fun?"

* * *

You didn't see THAT one coming, did you?? _(did you?)_

Yeah, if that didn't make sense; in the Dark Knight, the Joker mentions **a) **that when they were done, Gothem would turn on Batman and **b)**

**Batsy: You should be in a padded cell.**

**Mistuh J: Maybe we could share one!**

** Those lines, which I loved.**

**This ending is kinda abrupt, I know, but the ending I wanted took too long to reach with any decency. Sorry! **

**Maybe I'll write a short sequel with a dash of insanity and a sprinkling of Joker/Baman, which I owe to the people who read and reviewed The Joke. Love you guys!!**


End file.
